Right above my heart
by SpitzeFeder
Summary: A few months ago I stumbled across the Musketeers through fan-fiction: first I read a lot, then I dived into the series. I love the Inseperables! Here's my story approach: whump, emotions and brotherly love. English is not my first language, so I hope you forgive me my poor grammar. I do my best to eradicate mistakes - please let me know if you notice something. Have fun!
1. Chapter 1

**Story edited: Thanks so much to Greenlips24 and Uia for your tips on how to make the story better readable. I hope it´s more fun to read now and you enjoy the new format!**

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She was alone, all on her own. She had torn down the last Red Guard with her own fragile hands, her shaking fingers still clasping tight to the smoking pistol she had drawn from Aramis´ holster with all strenght she could muster. Now she was surrounded by silence. Only the soft whisper of the wind revealed that time had not stopped, had not left her alone as the last living creature on a godforsaken earth.

A breath she had stopped without realizing it escaped her aching lungs. The pistol fell from her hands, her gaze ghosting over the surrounding battlefield.  
Where was Aramis?  
He defended her bravely, apparently alone against a superior power of 15 Red Guards, ordered by the devil himself, Rochefort. But now he was nowhere to be seen. Anna stumbled through the lifeless bodies on the clearing, where they had been surprised only minutes ago. Aramis had been distracted, as was she. She still tasted his caressing mouth on her lips. But now she tasted also blood and gunpowder, biting and repulsive.  
Aramis? Where was Aramis?

That's when she spotted him. He lay half buried under a dead Guard he had just perforated with his sword, when the musket ball hit him. His doublet shimmered wet, damp and sticky with blood.

Anna stumbled forward, almost tangled in the damned pearly-colored skirts, pulled the Guard from him with all her strength, sank to her knees beside her lover, her trembling fingers touched gently and worriedly his pale, motionless face.  
"Aramis?" Tears almost stifled their pleading words.  
"Aramis." She sobbed. His skin was still warm.  
Warm?

Anna hardly dared to hope, but her searching fingers opened his doublet, her fragile cool hand pressed against his bare chest. She breathed intermittently.  
Was there a heartbeat?  
With new determination, she lowered her head, gently placing an ear to his chest and holding her breath to listen.  
"I am still here."

Anna felt it more than she heard it, a murmured response to her prayers, and when she lifted her gaze she looked directly into Aramis dark brown eyes.  
Like a shiver, she breathed relief. Tears sprang to her eyes and she could not lean over him fast enough to cover his face with kisses.  
"Aramis. Oh, Aramis, you live."  
His breathing was intermittent, she felt it now. He was in pain, but he smiled a crooked smile.  
"Yes, my Majesty."  
He paused, chest moving under her hands.  
"I would never dare to die in your presence."  
Again this smile, full of mischief and goodness. And there was something else: Shame? Helplessness?  
Aramis stopped trying to wiggle himself in a more comfortable position and looked Anna straight in the eye. His right hand sought and found her cheek, his gloved thumb caressing it gently. His eyes full of care and worry for his queen.  
"Are you unharmed, Anna? I'm so sorry I could not protect you."

He lifted his head, his eyes searched anxiously for injuries, his voice rough and wounded. Speaking was difficult for him.  
"Do not worry, Aramis, I'm fine. You fought bravely."

Her gaze wandered over the fifteen dead guardsmen scattered around them. He followed her gaze.  
"We've been victorious," she smiled, a beautiful little-girl-smile, full of love and confidence.  
"We?" Aramis asked mischievously.  
"Yes, we."  
With that answer she bent over him and their lips met in a kiss.

How long the kiss lasted, neither of them knew. But as their lips parted Aramis was ready to enter paradise. He had closed his eyes blissfully and felt no pain, no anger. Only the perfection of the present moment. He felt Annas cool hand stroking his forehead and wished that moment would last forever. But then he felt her hand slip away from him, the comforting moment was over.

It took some effort to reopen his eyes. He felt Anna trembling again and her delicate fingers working on his doublet. They loosened the leather cords that held it over his chest, and the cold forest air burned like fire on his wound. He could not help but grimace, a moan escaping his throat.  
"You are bleeding heavily," he heard Anna whisper.  
There was dread in her voice. Aramis sighed and gathered all his remaining strength, bracing himself on his right elbow to lean back against the nearby tree trunk. He did not want to see it, but it had to be: He raised his right hand and gently felt around the wound on his left shoulder, right above the heart. With each of his irregular heartbeats he felt fresh, hot blood flow from the wound.

He swallowed and studied his own bloodied fingertips for a moment. Then, with some difficulty, he pulled his sash from his hip, took a deep breath and pressed the cloth to the wound. His whole body tensed under the pain, but as a field surgeon and healer, he knew what such a heavy blood loss could do to a wounded man.  
He narrowed his eyes and tried to even his breathing.

"Anna, in my saddlebag, my instruments, for field surgery." He had to stop to catch his breath.  
"Can you bring them to me?"

At this moment of outermost distress, he no longer paid attention to her title of nobility, or that it was not appropriate to demand something of his queen, let alone ask her to get anything. And even Anna did not seem to care, because she listened attentively to each of his words, nodded and leap up.

Their horses had moved a little way from the battle, but fortunately they were still standing among the willow trees. The beasts were sweating, neighing and retreating as Anna approached. With outstretched hands and reassuring words, she tried not to frighten the startled creatures any more, but she also knew that she had little time to spare.

She has always been good to animals. The cruel hunting practices of her husband King Louis had always given her a stab to the heart, but in her childhood at the Royal Palace of Valladolid* there was no horse, no rabbit and no stray cat that could escape her petting. So she managed in no time to soothe Aramis´ loyal warhorse and to wrap its reins around the next branch, so it and her quiet mare did not disappear onto the road.

Aramis´ saddlebags were stuffed with things: a clean shirt, a raincoat, dried supplies, several drinking canteens and a small breviary, his prayer book. She quickly searched both bags and finally found what she was looking for: a larger package of leather and linen, next to it wrapped in a clean scarf several long strips of cloth, prepared as bandages.

Aramis seemed to be prepared for severe injuries of his comrades. Probably because of his long experience in the field, he always had enough bandages and the most necessary medical instruments with him to be best equipped in an emergency. What a caring and thoughtful man. Now he himself needed the help of his materials.

Anna took everything that seemed useful, including one of the bottles, and quickly returned to Aramis. The latter now sat upright leaning against the tree, one hand pressed the fabric of his Sash on the wound to staunch the bleeding. He smiled crookedly as he saw Anna coming back with the towels and bandages.  
"I tied the horses," she said as she sank down beside him in the grass.  
"Well done. We may need them later."

Gratefully, he took the supplies from her and eyed them with trained look. In the meantime, Anna had taken the sash from his hand and was now putting pressure on the wound. The piece of fabric has soaked in blood in this short time and even an untrained eye saw that it was almost useless.

Aramis folded a firm bale out of the new bandages with practiced fingers. He looked up, feeling her firm, secure hand on his chest. He felt as if through the reassuring pressure he could feel his raging heartbeat even more clearly, wondering if she could feel it too. His deepest secret, his hidden soul. For a moment he lost himself in the image that she might be his soulmate, his lover.

Then he gently put his right hand over her left, bringing her attention back from his blood to his eyes.  
"Anna, in my saddlebag is a smaller black leather bottle. It contains a liquid that can prevent the risk of infection. Also a flint. Will you bring it to me?"

Anna nodded and got up again. Aramis dreaded what he would do to himself, what she had to watch. But he already felt the effects of blood loss. He felt lightheaded, the world began to spin. Breathing was difficult. He would not be able to stay conscious for much longer. With his teeth he pulled the cork out of a brown water hose, move it to his lips and took a long sip. As the burning liquid trickled down his throat and made him cough, he could not defy a devilish smile. Anna had instinctively grasped just the right hose.

She returned and brought him the things he asked for. He thanked her and set to work to roll out his instruments. With only one hand, it was not easy to untie the knot on the parcel, but once he had made it, he could identify he had everything important with him: silvery shining scalpels, knives, tweezers and needles. For a brief moment he thought, against better knowledge, of taking thread and needle and trying to suture the wound conventionally, but when his gaze fell on the blood-soaked bandage again he knew there was only one solution to him that could save him from certain death.

He touched Annas hand, which just pushed his shirt slightly more to the side so he had free access to his shoulder, looked deep into her eyes and asked  
"Do you know how to build a fire?"

For a brief moment his question seemed to surprise her. The afternoon had been warm. But then she nodded.  
"It does not have to be big." Aramis continued. "Some tinder, a few twigs and branches should be enough."  
Anna still looked at him questioningly.  
"Are you cold? Or should your friends be made aware of us through the fire?" she asked, glancing around as if she expected Porthos, Athos and D'Artagnan to emerge from the maze at any moment.

Aramis grabbed her hand tighter.  
"No, Anna. But," he hesitated.  
"I have to cauterize the wound. Otherwise," he wanted to continue, but Anna quickly withdrew her hand and straightened up.  
"Aramis," she breathed in horror.  
"Anna, listen to me," he insisted. "It´s bleeding too much, it must be a vein injured. Only a safe closure will stop the bleeding."  
Anna was still staring at him with horrified eyes. Aramis took a deep breath.  
"And it has to go fast now. I feel my strength wane."  
He looked at her pleadingly and full of remorse, and despite all the heroism she could see fear shimmering in the corner of his eye. She pinched her lips together before her right hand fell over his heart and she spoke  
"What must I do?"

Aramis was overwhelmed by her hearts solidity and power. He nodded briefly and explained what he was up to. A small fire was quickly awaken after Anna piled some twigs, moss and branches beside them. Aramis was astonished at her skill with the flintstone. At his instruction, she placed a small knife with a rounded tip on a fieldstone in the middle of the fire to heat up.

In the meantime, Aramis had fresh towels ready to hand next to him, including a small jar of ointment and the black leather bottle with the disinfecting tincture following his teacher's recipe.

As the blade began to glow, Aramis straightened up against the tree trunk and told Anna to sit next to him so he could brief her on the coming events. She realized that he took two deep breaths as if to arm himself for the coming explanation. When he had her full attention he startet:  
"Listen, this has to go fast now. First we have to clean the wound with the tincture. Then I take the knife," his eyes glided over to the fire, where the now glowing blade lay between the dancing flames and waited for its cruel use  
"and scorch over the wound edges as good as possible. Understood?" Anna nodded.  
"Then you pour some more of the tincture over it" and added with a hint of dark humour: "Not too parsimonious."

Then his eyes became serious again and at the next words he locked eyes with her.  
"Should I pass out, you have to go on. Simply rinse out the wound, and cover with bandages, that should be enough for now. Do not try to infuse me with water or anything else. I could choke on it. It's good if I lie on my right side, then the shoulder is free and I'm not hindered from breathing."

Anna could hardly believe what he said. As he talked so completely factually about his own ordeal, she was confused until she realized that this was all within the bounds of possibility, yes, that Aramis firmly expected to loose consciousness in this procedure.  
Had he experienced this all too often with comrades in his care and therefore knew so exactly what was going to happen?  
"Aramis, I ..." she began, but he interrupted her and his voice became even more serious.

His next words were chosen carefully  
"Should my heart stop beating, Anna," horrified by his words, she slipped away from his grasp.  
"No, Anna, this is important." He insisted.  
"Should I die, leave me here." She stared at him incredulously.  
"The others will find me later and give me a dignified burial. But first you need to get yourself to safety."

He spoke faster and more determinedly.  
"Take the horses, and ride back to Paris. Seek refuge in the garrison. Athos, Porthos and D'Artagnan will be there. Tell them what happened."

He paused and looked deep into her eyes. Seconds passed while with his blood life itself flowed steadily out of him. And since he sensed and feared that his time had come and he missed the last chance to say it, to let her know it, Aramis summed up all his heart and said what he wanted to say since their first meeting:  
"I love you, Anna."

Then they kissed. Aramis felt his hands start to shake again. His time had ran out if he did not take that last, tiny chance to save himself. They parted, and without another word, Aramis reached for the blade, pulled it out of the fire, held it for a moment in trembling hands, quarreled, feared, his insides screamed ... then he felt the knife was gently taken out of hand.

A solid piece of leather was pushed between his teeth, he bit thankfully, closed his eyes and felt her lips against his forehead. He sent all his thoughts, all his striving, all his being to this point on his forehead, still felt her lips, even after their delicious touch had disconnected. And screamed as an outrages pain ran through his shoulder, his body, his heart.

His eyes widened, Annas tear-stained face blurred, then darkness rushed at him from all sides, tearing him, drown him, envelop him, and wolf him completely. Aramis, musketeer of the king, fighter, believer and healer, friend of all musketeers and lover of Anna, Queen of France, lost himself in deep unconsciousness.

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_* Royal Palace of Valladolid: The Royal Palace of Valladolid was the official residence of the Kings of Spain during the period between 1601 and 1606. Anna Maria Mauricia from Austria – (spanish: Ana de Austria, french: Anne d'Autriche) was born there on the 22nd Septembre 1601. _


	2. Chapter 2

Voices reached Aramis ear.  
First muffled, as if his ears were stuffed with cotton wool.  
Why did he have cotton wool in his ears? Had he again tried to study in the noisy household of his father?

He tried to raise a hand to pull the wisps out of his ears, but his arm was leaden. He just managed to shrug his fingers, not more than a few inches from the soft blanket.  
Soft?  
Yes, it was a fleece not grass he was lying on. Soft and worn.

Now he also perceived the smell. Horses, candle wax and worn leather.  
How many years had he awoken in this familiar scent?  
Was he in his room?  
Was already morning and he had once again missed muster?

But no, he never missed muster, but only with good reason. And that reason usually wore a fancy dress and did certainly not sleep on an outworn sheepskin.

Voices.  
These voices, they had to mean something.  
Aramis racked his brain and groaned in frustration when he could not remember what felt poor about this mise-on-scence. And with the moan returned the pain. Like a beast lurking in the dark, it sneaked up and bit Aramis in his left shoulder, right above the heart.

Suddenly everything was back: his rendezvous with the queen in the forest clearing, the robbery, the shots and the burning steel in his wound.  
Aramis panted.

Suddenly there were hands, strong hands. They held him tight, pinching his arms to the bed-linen.  
The invaders had returned from the dead?  
Someone else had discovered them?  
Whoever it was, he had to protect the queen.  
Aramis gasped, trying to open his eyes, with all his remaining strength, to shake off the attackers.

"Porthos, D'Artagnan, help me. He is hurting himself."  
Athos had been torn from his thoughts by the wee movement of his friend.  
Standing by the window, he had watched the usual hustle and bustle in the yard, but his thoughts lingered on the forest clearing, where Aramis, out of his own thoughtlessness, had suffered so much ailment.

The swordsmans heart was torn between deep concern and infuriated wrath at his friend.  
What had driven him to such madness? Was it really love for the Queen of France?  
Athos himself had experienced stubborn, untameable love for a woman, and soon had to suffer the consequences of an overly loving heart. He did not wish this grief, fury and hopelessness to his worst enemy.

Porthos and D'Artagnan had stood with Treville at the door to Aramis room, waiting for the doctor to be sent by Queen Anna. A versed man, as she said. Athos hoped he was worthy of the queens praise. Most of the doctors he knew were bunglers who could do more harm with a handful of leeches and a bone saw than ten men with muskets.

No one really expected Aramis to wake up within the next few days. The fever had gotten worse with each passing hour, and the wound in his shoulder had stopped bleeding, but the bullet was still stuck in it, an infection inevitable in the forest. If Aramis did not lose his life, it was quite likely that his friend would not get up from his sickbed unharmed. If he ever got up again.

Athos perceived Aramis` gasping breaths, held him down by both arms as best he could without causing his friend more distress and desperately tried to soothe him. Porthos and D'Artagnan rushed to support their leader.  
A cool cloth was passed, and D'Artagnan gently placed it on his brothers forehead, holding it with one hand.

"Aramis. Aramis, you need to calm down. We are here, your brothers. You´re home."  
After a while, the whispered words seemed to push through to Aramis fever-shaken mind.  
Athos saw him lift his eyelids, first confused, and then, with increasing realisation, seeming to perceive his surroundings.  
The struggling ebbed away, Aramis breathed heavily, his gaze wandering over his comrades.  
"Athos?" Athos smiled softly at the sound of his name.  
"Yes, Aramis, we are all here. Do not worry."

Aramis gulped dry, and D'Artagnan, with mindful awareness, reached for a cup of water on the bedside table beside Aramis´ bunk. He led the mug gently to his companions mouth. Gratefully, Aramis took a few sips, then dropped his head back onto the pillow.

"How did you find us?" He croaked.  
But before Athos could answer, Aramis head shot up again. Frantically he looked around.  
"Anna," he gasped.  
"Where is she?"  
"Aramis." Athos insisted. "We brought the queen back to the palace, where she belongs."

In his voice was a hint of fugitive accusation. Aramis looked him in the eye. Despite the fever, he had noticed Athos tone of voice. Still he needed to know.  
"Is she well? She´s unhurt?"  
"She's fine, just a little shaken. She´s unharmed".  
Athos insured, and Aramis believed him. He nodded in relief and closed his eyes, feeling the exhaustion overwhelming him.

"The physician is here," Trevilles voice boomed from the door, and a few moments later an old monk vigourously entered the chamber. He was dressed in the black monks robe of the Jesuits**, yet over the cowl he wore a cape typical of a medicus and in his hands a worn leather bag, no doubt with all sorts of medical equipment. He glanced questioningly at the man on the bed, instantly taking in the pale features and soft shudders, that shaked the sharpshooters body as the other musketeers moved aside to allow him enough space to work.

The old monks eyes became gloomy, disapprovingly pinching his lips together and shook his head. He put down his bag and to the surprise of all, he flipped back his hood and sat casually on Aramis´ bedside, took the mans healthy right hand and squeezed it cordially.  
Aramis opened his eyes and looked into the physicians face.  
The doctor said no word, just puffed his breath through his nose and studied the younger man in front of him. He placed a hand on his forehead, raised an eyebrow in disapproval, and shook his head again.  
His stern gaze wandered over the hastily applied bandage on Aramis' left shoulder, another snort.  
"Thats not how I taught you this, Aramis. Do you honor my teaching by inflicting pain on yourself?"

"Father Bernard."  
Aramis´ mouth turned into a recognizing smile. Astonished he breathed:  
"How?"  
"The queen has been in contact with my convent for quite a time," said the old monk.  
"She has a keen interest in how the human body works and has studied some of our books. Strictly confidential, of course."

A mischievous smile touched the Jesuits eyes, making his square face appear years younger.  
"She told me about your little..." he paused, "excursion and asked me to check on you. I do not leave my convent very often any more, but in this case."  
This smile again, full of affection and appreciation, and a certain rascal that no suffering in the world had been able to disperse. Aramis felt his heart warming at the sight of his old teacher, who had taught him all about the art of medicine and surgery, in the confidence that Aramis would one day take his place among the Jesuits. But Aramis had decided otherwise, at least for the time being.

Father Bernard, Dr. Bernard as they now knew, slipped two gentle fingers under the makeshift-bandage to examine the tracks the musketball and knife had caused his once-so-perceptive scholar. He reached a hand around the shoulder to feel the injury from behind.  
Aramis frowned and closed his eyes at the painful movement of the aggrieved joint. Bernard commented with another breath, put two fingers on Aramis' carotid artery and felt for the pulse.  
Aramis tried to calm his breathing to simplify the examination for his teacher and to slow down his irregular stumbling heartbeat. But of course the experienced healer noticed his efforts.

"You are in pain." He observed with a look in Aramis´ glassy eyes.  
Again the cool, calloused hand, this time on his cheek.  
"And you run a high fever. The wound is infected under the burn."  
Aramis swallowed.  
"And because the ball is still in, there will be no improvement."  
He looked to the musketeers, who stood around the sickbed of their friend.

"I have to reopen the wound and cut out the bullet and the infected flesh. Otherwise he dies."  
The remaining three musketeers and Treville gazed in horror at the dreadful news. Aramis had closed his eyes knowingly. When he opened them again, he asked in a hoarse voice:  
"Will I lose my arm, Bernard?" The old monk smiled determinedly:  
"Not if I can prevent it, lad."

He stood up.  
"But we have to be swift now, and I'll have to cut deep."  
He turned to those present:  
"I need more light, it's too dark in here. Best we'd take him to the yard."  
"The yard?" D'Artagnan blurted out.  
Father Bernard fixed his deep blue gaze on the youngest musketeer.  
"Yes, the sun is in its zenith, in an hour it will not dazzle any more. I need a good, clean table, hot water, alcohol and fresh bandages," he ordered.  
"Surely you´ll find these items in your Musketeer-den," he added with a humorous remark.

This left the musketeers speechless for a moment. How could this old monk talk like this about their garrison, their home? But with one more stern look from the determined face, they hurried to follow his commands.  
A table was placed in the middle of the yard.  
D'Artagnan hurried to the kitchen instructing Serge to boil water and Porthos cleaned the table by hand with salt water and sand before covering it with a clean sheeting.

Athos had stayed with Aramis and Bernard, who now began rummaging through his bag, revealing a small package of herbs and berries, which he handed to Athos.  
"Take this and let it boil a strong tea. It has to simmer for at least 20 minutes, then bring it to me."  
"What are those herbs?" Athos asked curiously.

The old priest had again taken his seat next to Aramis and felt with practiced fingers over the wound edges. Aramis took a deep breath to suppress the pain.  
"Our friend here has already suffered a lot. More than he wants to show."  
Their eyes met.  
"But the pain and bloodloss have drained him off his strength. Breathing is difficult and his heartbeat is not as steady as I would like it to be."

Aramis lowered his gaze. The old monk read in him like in a book.  
"The potion will give him back some of his strenght. In connection with this," he pulled a bottle of golden-coloured brandy from his pocket, "he should sleep deeply in about an hour so that he can outlive the operation without excessive pain."

He reached for the mug on Aramis bedside table, unceremonously pouring the watery contents into a corner and filled it with brandy instead.  
"Hurry up now with the tea, I want to start soon." Athos nodded and disappeared with the herbs towards the kitchen. The old monk lifted the cup to Aramis' lips and let him drink.  
"Down with it, lad. Then you feel better."

He was right.  
After a short while Aramis felt the effects of alcohol in his head and limbs. Both felt heavy, he could barely keep his eyes open. And when the priest put the third cup to his lips, Athos returned with the herb brew.

Non-ceremonially, Father Bernard replaced the brandy with the teacup and forced Aramis the last sip of the brew between his lips. When Aramis had emptied the cup to the dregs, he dropped his head numbly on the pillow and grimaced. His tongue was heavy as he said:  
"Bah, I certainly did not miss your potions, Master."  
Father Bernard smiled: "And yet they have saved your life and others so many times."

He beckoned to Porthos and Athos and quietly spoke:  
"Hurry now, bring him outside and put him on the operating table."

Porthos and Athos seized their friend as cautious as possible by the arms and carried him to the courtyard, where the sun had exceeded its climax about an hour ago, and shone pleasant from the cloudless sky. Father Bernard followed, took off his cloak and hung it unceremoniously on a hook on the horse gate. He rolled up his sleeves and took a bowl of fresh alcohol from a nearby musketeer. As he washed his hands in it, he instructed Porthos and Athos:  
"The shirt must go. And then take that bowl," he pulled his hands from the liquid "and pour it generously over his shoulder. Not too parsimonious." The musketeers did as they had been told.  
"Refill the bowl, we'll need more of it."

Father Bernards gaze wandered around and locked eyes with Athos.  
"And now I need another pair of steady hands."

* * *

_**Jesuits: in the series "The Musketeers" Aramis leaves to join the monastery Douai in North-France, a carthusian monastery. The carthusian monks live solitary with a strict rules. In the original books by Alexandre Dumas Aramis joins the Jesuit Order, a powerful ecclesiastical organization whose purpose is, inter alia, to impart knowledge. As early as 1551, the founder of the order, Ignatius of Loyola, proposed teaching both theology, logic and ancient classics, later mathematics, astronomy, physics and philosophy. This alignment seemed more appropriate to me in this story._


	3. Chapter 3

Listening to his own breathing was strange, Aramis thought.

He heard himself breathing in and out, feeling his chest rise and fall. Apparently he had not died, even though he had repeatedly wished that in the course of the previous operation. All brandy and herbal blends Father Bernards could only take away the tips of the pain that arises when a sharp scalpel cuts into your flesh.

Bernard was the best surgeon in France, the best in his field, to whom Aramis had the privilege to observe. His incredibly accurate fingers were able to perform even the most delicate cuts, skillfully bypassing sinews and bones, and yet, in the end, they were cuts. Cuts that Aramis would probably feel in his dreams till the end of his life. Cuts deepening into his flesh as Father Bernard gave quiet instructions to Athos in a calm, steady voice, briefly telling the bystanders what he was doing, while Porthos, D'Artagnan, and other musketeers pinned him to the table with an iron grip so that he could not wind under the pain.

At some point, the darkness that had lurked on the edge of his consciousness, caused by pain, alcohol, and alchemy, finally crept over him. Aramis greeted the darkness like an old friend and sank gratefully into her arms. If he ever woke up again, he did not care at the time.

And now he listened to himself breathing.  
He lay perfectly still, only to enjoy the peace for a moment, before the hell broke over him again, the knife Bernards cut him again and again into all eternity.

Perhaps he had died and was now awaiting purgatory for his numerous sins: the women, the dead, the lies.  
How could God not punish him?  
But the punishment did not come, no matter how long Aramis waited for it. He just lay there and listened to his breathing until finally, after an hour or a day, the feeling returned to his body.

A dull throb in his shoulder told him he was still in his mortal body, not yet gone either to heaven or hell. And against all expectations it remained with the dull throbbing pain. No arrows, no knives penetrated him.  
So Aramis finally felt ready and simply opened his eyes. It was remarkable easy.

The light was dim in his room, apparently it had turned night in the meantime. He stared open-eyed at the ceiling, recognizing the rafters, the familiar pattern of floorboards above him. Consciously he breathed deeper and grimaced in astonishment as only the dull throbbing slightly increased and he did not go through said roof in pain.

No matter what witches brew Father Bernard had instilled in him, he absolutely had to ask him for the recipe. A few more deep breaths, leather creaking on his right side. Boots hit the ground.  
"Aramis?"  
Disbelief was written on Porthos face as he leaned over his awakened friend. Aramis felt a warm hand on his cheek.  
"Aramis, can you hear me?"

Porthos looked sleepy. Presumably he had dozed off during watch. Aramis blinked twice to clear his head. Something was missing in this conversation.

"Aramis!"  
This call was more urgent.  
The warm hand now patted his cheek instead of just lying on it.  
Again, Aramis blinked.  
What was it?  
What was missing?

"Aramis, I need you to talk to me." Porthos voice sounded worried and anxious.  
What?  
Ahhh, yes.  
He swallowed dryly.

"Porthos." Infinite relief covered Porthos face when he heard his friend finally speak.  
He smiled.  
"How are you feeling, brother?"

Aramis swallowed again and moistened his lips.  
"Better. What happened?"  
Porthos eyes darkened at the memory of the afternoon.  
"The old priest, he is really a master. Digged the ball out of you without even batting an eyelid. I've never seen anything like that."  
Aramis smiled. He knew his tutor.  
"He said we should let you sleep. You need rest so your body can recover."

At these words, a terrible thought hit Aramis dizzy brain. He twitched, trying to lift his head and his left arm at the same time. It did not work.

"NaNaNa, slow down. You do not want to destroy my crafted embroidery."  
Father Bernards face moved in beside Porthos´ in Aramis field of vision and sat down on the edge of his bed as in the morning, while´ Porthos readily made room and placed himself at the foot of the bed.

Meanwhile the other musketeers had entered the chamber and were eager to see their friend awake. But Aramis only had eyes for the healer. In his eyes simmered the fear of a sharpshooter:  
"Father Bernard, have you ... did you have to? My arm?"

Bernard, in response, pulled back the woolen blanket that had been spread over Aramis to protect him from the chilly night, revealing a tight bandage around his chest, shoulder and arm. The left arm was tied tightly to his ribcage to protect the sutures, but Aramis with some difficulty could wiggle all his fingers on his left hand.  
Relieved, he let out a breath, dropped his head on the pillow, and closed his eyes.  
"Thank you, Father," he breathed barely audible.

The old man smiled benevolently and lowered his head humbly.  
"Thank not me, but Saint Sebastian***," he whispered.  
"You prayed to him before you lost consciousness, did you?"  
Aramis smiled tiredly. The priest leaned even lower to him and whispered conspiratorially in his ear.  
"It helped."

He mischievously blinked at Aramis and reached for the mug that stood on the nightcase.  
"More of your herbal tinctures?" Aramis eyed it suspiciously.  
Father Bernard smiled widely.  
"No, just clear water."

He brought the cup to Aramis' lips and turned to the others.  
"He has to drink plenty to keep up for the bloddloss. And make sure to get some food into him by tomorrow at the latest. He needs time and rest to regain his strength."  
With a glance at his patient, he added: "Lie still and don´t tear my needlework. I'll have a look after you tomorrow morning, lad."

With these words he got up and left the room. Aramis looked after him gratefully. Even without Bernards herbal tea, he felt a deep tiredness seep into him. All he wanted was to close his eyes and let himself sink deep into his pillow.

The other musketeers had come closer, Athos took Bernards place on the edge of the bed and wordlessly reached for Aramis healthy hand. Porthos grinned appreciatively:  
"A remarkable man."  
Aramis nodded tiredly.  
"Yes, he is."  
D'Artagnan replied:  
"At some point you have to tell us the whole story of you and this old man."  
Aramis nodded again, eyelids dropping.

"But not now," said Athos.  
"Sleep, brother. We're with you." He smiled.  
Aramis had already fallen into a deep dreamless sleep.

* * *

_***Saint Sebastian: christian saint and martyr, patron of the shooters_


End file.
